


Cullen: Intimacy

by Kauri



Series: NSFW Tumblr Prompts [4]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blowjobs, F/M, Fingering, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, plus sized inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 16:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10700877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kauri/pseuds/Kauri
Summary: From a tumblr prompt from @lemonmeringuecake asking for Cullen + intimacy. Also for @stregatadallostregatto, who's a tremendous advocate for body positivity, and gave me some much needed encouragement through the creation of this work. :)





	Cullen: Intimacy

It took Cullen months to kiss her. Not for lack of wanting. Sometimes just _looking_ at her was enough to rouse him. But lusting after the Herald of Andraste seemed something one ought not to do.

Though in all honesty, Trevelyan was a poor fit for a religious figurehead. Too headstrong and unapologetic. Too difficult to control. A Warrior, more like Bull than Cassandra. With a stubborn streak a mile wide. She was strong -- not just strong-willed, but strong. Her strength ran deep, was woven into her bones. Not simply muscle, something harder. She was silverite at her core.

Trevelyan wielded a mace. An enormous two-hander that struck with the sound of a thunderclap. Cullen complained often about her lack of a shield -- it was one thing for Bull to go without one, another thing entirely for the Herald, the _Inquisitor_ to be charging at the front with nothing to protect her.

He watched her. Often. Watched _over_ her, he’d like to think. Though he spent too much time eyeing her curves to convince himself that his attention was purely altruistic. And she was _all_ curve. Wide, and womanly. Broad shoulders, and even broader hips and thighs. Sturdy, and capable. There was a rawness to her beauty. Like a diamond pulled from the earth, rare and glorious, but roughly-hewn. He could touch her and not leave fingerprints. He could send her to war and not worry she’d break.

And there was a grace to her. Even in stillness -- though she was rarely still. She laughed, often, and well. A large, broad sound that matched the rest of her. A smile, all dimples and teeth. He’d swear he’d never seen a smile so wide.

Her smile _was_ her shield, he eventually came to realize. And she could hide the world behind it. Hurt and uncertainty were such small things, so easily overlooked. She was a large dwarf, she’d joke. Half Qunari. Her smile was always broadest when she was self deprecating.

But he saw the way she’d eye the figures of the elves, slender and lithe. Or the way her expression would go a little flat when Vivienne or Josephine would dress her for formal events. Something fashionable. Slimming. Something that re-shaped her curves into the form _they_ deemed acceptable. And then he watched her, raising empires while wrapped in satin. Breathing shallowly, beneath the corsets and lace.

They tried to do the same with her armor. Insisting that the Inquisitor must _look_ the part. He put his foot down then, incised. Armour serves a single purpose. And it wasn’t to look _pretty._

“She’s pretty enough _without_ your interference.” He’d growled.

_Maker._

He can still feel the surprised looks on him. _Hers._ Vivienne’s. Even Cassandra’s. Though the Seeker’s expression had melted at once into something that made him feel entirely foolish. So -- face burning -- he’d stalked away from the Undercroft without another word, absurd breastplate tucked firmly under his arm.

He’d tossed the damned thing off the battlements as soon as he returned to his office.

\--

He’s still braced against the window of his office, staring at the bright white glare of the Frostbacks when she enters his office.

“Cullen?”

“Inquisitor!” He whirls around, startled. “I-- I’m sorry.” He says automatically. “That was… _unprofessional_ of me. And I… sorry.”

She ignores his apology. Skirts around his desk and comes to stand beside him, leaning out over the narrow sill. “Did you throw it out the window?”

“No.” He clears his throat nervously, “Maybe, yes. I intend to have words with Harritt.” A sigh. “Your armor is meant to keep you safe.” Cullen runs his hand through his hair in aggravation. “He knows damn well how _irresponsible,_ and unsuitable, and-and--” He takes a deep breath, silently cursing himself a fool. “Still. I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

She doesn't look at him, gaze still locked on the mountainside. “You won’t be unprofessional anymore, or you won’t throw my armor out the window again?”

“Both.” He says, frowning, and risks a glance at her.

She’s silent for a while. Expression unchanging. The wind shifts again, and her hair lifts, blowing off her shoulders, and catching the light. He blinks, flushing, and nearly misses her soft reply. “I wouldn’t mind if you did either.”

She turns to go, and he snakes his arm out to stop her, catching her around the waist. It’s entirely instinctive, some higher, still-functioning part of his brain realizes; the way he draws her back to him in one fluid movement. He pulls her close. Closer than she was before. And when his lips press suddenly against hers, that same part of his brain flares with alarm. Alarm tinged with resignation. A man who’s spent his life making terrible decisions, is bound to make a few more.

But the kiss is is anything but terrible.

It is soft, and small, and hesitant. And like the stillness in the air before a storm, it suddenly evaporates, and all of the want and worry of the past few months spill over, unbidden. He tangles his hands in her hair, tugging her head back to deepen the kiss, and only then thinks to wonder if she even welcomes his touch.

But she’s kissing him back, just as fervently. Hands burrowing beneath his armor, seeking bare skin. The noises she makes are small, and urgent. And he backs her into his desk, unthinking. Hips pressing hers against the hard edge. Dizzy, and breathless.

He’s not sure how long he kisses her like that, arms locked around her, bodies flush. But when he pulls back to draw breath, he’s got one hand against the fullness of her breast, and has backed her halfway up his desk.

The sight shocks him into stillness.

“I…” He swallows hard, she more than fills his hand. Fingers curl around her breast, squeezing by reflex. “This… I … _Maker.”_ He pulls back a little, face burning. “This is hardly what I meant by professional.”

The corner of her mouth turns up, tiny dimple pitting in her cheek, and it is all he can do not to kiss her again.

She makes a thoughtful sound, eyes narrowed. Then her hands snakes out, lightening fast, and palms the infamous lion helm sitting on his desk. It catches the light as she twists, and lobs it out the open window.

He makes a startled sound. A laugh that twists into a cough. “That… was technically Inquisition property.”

“Do I owe you an apology?” She asks with a wry grin.

He shakes his head, still a little dazed.

“And you don’t either.” She insists, and walks out.

\--

He finds himself kissing her again. And again.  
  
And again.

Often enough that he can no longer pretend -- even to himself -- that it’s something that simply _happens._ That he doesn’t seek out these little moments, even orchestrate them -- timing his entrance to match hers, so they find themselves alone in the hall between the War Room and Josephine’s office. Pressing her against doors, and walls, as his lips find hers. Blood _roaring_ through him as the smiling curve of her mouth opens, and he tastes her.

Their first night together, Trevelyan gives him her mouth.

And he takes it.

Arms braced against the door to his office. Sweating, and swearing, still fully armored. Hips restless as she kneels before him, mouth open. He can feel himself brushing the back of her throat, tries to keep his thrusts shallow, but she pulls him closer, urging him deeper. Sucking at him hard as she swallows, rhythmically.

His hips jerk back and forth, faster, and faster. He can feel his toes curl, feel the steadily building ache in his balls.

“Sweet, blessed Andraste,” He shudders, teeth tightly clenched in the effort to hold back. “I can’t _\-- fuck!”_

His building pleasure crests suddenly, and he tries to pull away, but she holds fast, keeping him in the sucking heat of her mouth, as he comes. His fist thumps against the door as he shudders, spurting down her throat. He can feel her swallow around him.

The sound of voices outside his office cut through his post-orgasmic haze.

“Fuck.” He says again, in a completely different tone.

Trevelyan, at least, has the presence of mind to return him to his breeches, and do up his laces before duty interrupts their hasty tryst. Several soldiers pass through his office, saluting. One sweeps a stack of reports onto his desk, and waits, standing at attention before his desk.

“I…” He turns back to Trevelyan, blinking and at a loss for words. _Thank you,_ somehow seems terribly crass, and doesn’t encompass the heavy warmth -- and, yes, _gratitude_ that suffuses his heart.

She smiles, flushed, and looking quite pleased. Her lips are a little swollen, and rather red. “I’ll see you at the War Table, Commander.” She says, before turning to go.

“Maker’s Breath.” He mutters. Runs a hand through his hair, and tries very, very hard to focus on his work.

\--

Whenever they manage to find time alone -- time enough for _more_ than just a kiss, and shared breath -- she kneels before him, starting, and finishing him with her mouth. He always _means_ to demur, and attend to her, but her hands are quick and clever, for a warrior. They find the chinks in his armor, fingertips unerringly seeking bare skin. A few gentle touches, and he is hers. Greedy and undisciplined. Overwrought with his need for her.

It has been _weeks_ of his selfish behavior.

Tonight though, he vows, will be different.

There’s a report sitting on his desk for her. Inconsequential. It deals with armory supplies, and would be little more than a footnote during War Council. He decides to bring it to her this evening -- to her quarters, and seduce her there. And so when night falls, and Skyhold’s usual bustle has mellowed to something hushed, and lazy, he finds himself at the door to her chambers, nervous, but clear headed.

He’s come prepared. Or rather, he already came. Stroked himself to completion at his desk, imagining, what he’s imagined hundreds of times before -- Trevelyan naked and bent over said desk, while he pistons her from behind.

“Courage, Rutherford.” He whispers to himself, and knocks smartly.

When she bids him enter, he does, taking the steps two-at-a-time in his eagerness.

She’s at her desk, but looks up as he enters, momentarily surprised, and then quite obviously pleased to see him. “Cullen,” her lips curl into a smile.

“Hello.” He replies huskily. And bows, rather formally, covertly looking around. He’s never actually _been_ in her quarters before. He expected something… imposing, and severe. _Inquisitorial._ He clearly remembers her spending time with Josephine and Vivienne, meticulously planning the decor of Skyhold, but it’s obvious they did not include this room in their designs.

It’s -- cozy is the word that springs to mind. Sparsely decorated and simply furnished. There’s a row of actual warhammers lined up against the far wall. Several are in dire need of repair. Cracked heads and splintered hafts. Enchantments that flickers in and out, like wavering candlelight.

There’s a knee-high pile of books around her desk, and an open ledger before her, half brushed aside for the letter she’s composing. He knows she has family up in the north. Some Marsher nobility, and he wonders briefly if she’s left behind a lover as well.

The thought is surprisingly upsetting, though he knows he has no claim to her. Not truly. And, judging by how amazing she is at it: his is not the first cock she’s sucked.

“Cullen, are you alright?” She asks. “You're glaring.”

“No, I -- yes, of course.” He clears his throat, tries to adopt a less severe expression. “I… _here!”_ He shoves the requisition at her.

Her brows shoot up as she unfolds the missive, and reads it. He silently curses himself a fool.

“Cullen…” She says carefully. “Is _this_ why you’re here?”

There's an _edge_ to her voice that he doesn't understand. Disappointment? Annoyance?

“Yes. No. I…” He grits his teeth, fiddling with the hem of his surcoat like a nervous schoolboy. He sends a brief prayer to the Maker above. “I had hoped to seduce you.” He says, badly.

She laughs, but the sound is high, and bright, and warms his heart, so he risks a glance at her. The look on her face, heavy-lidded and full of mischief, nearly stops his heart.

His heart still doesn’t stop when she stands, and comes around the desk to greet him, but it does squeeze painfully in his chest, tripping over several beats. She’s wearing -- _Maker_ she’s wearing practically _nothing._ Just a rose colored robe that hugs the shape of her. Silky and sleek, it’s drawn tightly across her bosom, and flutters around her hips. She  pads towards him with bare feet and slips into his arms, and he has a momentary qualm about the sharp edges of his armor digging into all that soft skin, before she presses her mouth against his, tongue licking a stripe against his teeth. The heat that sears through him, is a vivid reminder that it is _he_ who is in danger of being seduced.

Again.

She makes a pleased sound as she kisses him, sliding her hands up over the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his curls. “Mmmmm?”

 _Maker._ He’s had his hands on her before, but only through the studded leathers, and mail she wears at Skyhold. This though… He can feel the heat of her in his hands -- and utters a brief prayer of thanksgiving that he had thought to remove his gloves -- and the _shape_ of her, the full wobble of flesh as he weighs her arse, her breasts. Her nipples rise taunt against his palm and he groans into her mouth, _grinding_ against her, wanting her to feel the hardness of him.

He can feel her fingers on his vambraces, cleverly working at the buckles, before pulling the armor free. His heart races. She’s never bothered to undress him before, even a little, always contented herself with taking him in fur and plate. The thought of holding her flush against him, with only that slip of silk between them…

“Hurry,” He growls against her lips.

She chuckles, tugs off his surcoat. He’s never removed his armor so fast in his life -- graceless and desperate -- but it doesn’t matter. He nearly rips through the tangle of his laces, feels his cock slap against his belly as it springs free. The ache of it descends into his balls, and he comes out of his haze just enough to notice that she’s watching him, open desire stamped on her face.

He’s never been particularly self-conscious about his nudity -- not when he’d all but grown up in a Circle -- still, he feels a bloom of warmth creep up his chest, and can’t help but flex, covertly.

She reaches for him, gently threading her fingers through the golden-brown curls at the center of his chest. Following the thin trail of hair down, down, down, over the hard and quivering muscles of his abdominals, dipping lower still, below his bellybutton, to where his hair grows darker and denser above his cock. He arches his hips, urging her to touch him.

Instead she playfully hooks her fingers into the tops of his open breeches, and leans over, planting an open mouth kiss between his bellybutton, and that dark thatch of hair. An embarrassingly needy whine escapes his lips, and she chuckles against his skin, sending shivers through his hips.

She begins to drop to her knees before him, and he has the presence of mind -- just barely -- to stop her.

“I want…”

She raises her head, eyes dark. A smile on her lips. “Mmmm, yes?”

“I want to see you.” He asks, voice tight with desire. “All of you. Please.”

She hesitates, smile gone a little tremulous at the edges, and rises up to kiss him. A soft, fleeting press of her lips. “Alright.” She whispers.

She turns, slowly. There is hesitation, even in this, and he watches her go up on her toes, a little. Watches the flex of her calves beneath the hem of her robe. She shrugs her shoulders, and the robe slips down, just a little, baring her to his eyes for the very first time.

Lightly freckled shoulders, gently curving spine. Her figure is full, even here. The plush shape of her tucks into itself in deep, tantalizing lines that follow the curvature of her ribs.

His cock his so hard, it nearly hurts, and he drops a hand down to touch himself as he watches her.

“Slowly.” He pleads.

But she chuckles, and the robe dips, dropping suddenly below her arse.

He makes a small, strangled sound, heart clenching. Cock utterly forgotten.

_Maker._

She bears a fresh scar, pink and shiny. It starts at the small of her back, loops over her hip and across the span of one of her buttocks. It’s a jagged thing. Three distinct, neatly spaced lines, as though something -- some _demon_ \-- had tried to claw its way inside her. The _newness_ of it shocks him. _Blessed Andraste, it could not have healed but a fortnight ago. He could have lost her. He could so easily have..._

Fear swoops through him, unreasonable as it is -- she is safe, and whole, after all. But she turns, drawn by the intake of his breath, and catches him, frozen, eyes hard, and bitter, lips clamped together in a thin line.

She misunderstands.

He sees it in the way her eyes cloud over, and her expression turns a little stony. She pulls the robe back up over her shoulders, and fumbles with the ties. But he’s so preoccupied by the nature of her scar that it takes him a few heartbeats to realize how badly he’s blundered.

 _“Wait.”_ He says, panicked. “That’s not--”

“It’s alright, Cullen.” She smiles, but her eyes are flat. “I understand.”

“You don’t.” He insists, he can feel his color rising. “That _scar…”_

She pauses. Head cocked, face turned away.

“There was no report of you being injured.” There’s a disapproving edge in his voice that he can’t keep out, and he huffs, annoyed at himself. This is _not_ the time to be concerned about the inconsistencies of Inquisition paperwork. “Despair?” He asks, ignoring the break in his voice.

“While we were in the Hissing Wastes.” She nods, not looking at him. “Dorian healed it, it’s fine.”

An awkward silence falls between them. He’s painfully aware that he’s clad only in his unlaced breeches, cock out, and still erect. He ought to tuck himself away, but his hands keep clenching, and unclenching, reaching for her. He wants to close the distance between them, but Trevelyan is half-turned away from him, still prickly, and he’s afraid she might leave entirely if he does.

He shifts from foot to foot, unsure of how to mend this.

“Not that you ever get your pick of who you face in battle, but I prefer demons to _other_ types of enemies.” She says.

He blinks, startled. After all, demons are the absolute last thing _he’d_ ever choose to fight.

“They...” She pauses, brow furrowing. “They see me as a threat. To them I’m just another warrior. Bandits… mercenaries… even some of the soldiers we’ve faced. They all want to give speeches. They see me as soft, weak. _Fat,”_ She spits out the word, as if it leave a bitter taste in her mouth. “so I must be slow. They think I can’t be strong since I’m not like Cassandra, or Blackwall. They think I must be _playing at war.”_ Her marked hand flexes in the fold of her robes, the bitter edge to her anger is obvious. “It’s tiresome. Demons don’t care. They just want to kill me, same as the rest.”

His voice is tight. Strained. “That’s hardly --”

There are tears standing in her eyes, he realizes.

She turns away, briefly, with a frustrated sound. “You’d think something that has always been true, wouldn’t hurt so much…” She turns back to him, expression hard. “It doesn’t. Not… not usually. At least it didn’t used to. I know who I am… I _like_ who I am. I’m just not used to so many people pressing _so close,_ with all their expectations, and-and assumptions. And--” She shakes her head, taking slow deep breaths to calm herself. “And I know it’s because it terrifyies them. _Me._ They look at me and think I must be lazy… and _weak._ Who wants to put their faith in a savior like that?”

“Maker’s Breath,” He finds his voice, after a moment of stunned silence. “You’re not weak. Not at all. You’re the strongest person I know.”

She doesn’t smile, but the tight line of her lips ease a little.

He holds out his hand to her. When she slides her fingers against his palm, and allows him to tug her closer, it is all he can do not to kiss her. “I hope it is unnecessary for me to say that Thedas, could have no better Herald.” He bends his head, pressing a brief, chaste, brush of his lips against the back of her hand.

She makes a thoughtful sound. “I’m shaped very much like my mother. And she was the kindest person I’ve ever known.” She chuckles. “Nan used to say that I have my father’s eyes, but my mother’s arse.”

“Thank the Maker for that.” Cullen says, feverently.

Their eyes meet, and she bites back a surprised bark of laughter, flushing.

He kneels, presses his cheek against the softness of her stomach.Her breasts hang heavy at his temple. He can feel her trembling a little, at the contact.

“Can we start over?” He asks, heart in his throat. “Please. I’ve wanted this -- wanted _you_ for so long.”

She nods. A small, silent gesture, but it is all he needs. He surges up, capturing her lips with his. There’s something awkward, and forced about it for the barest of moments, as the rest of her uncertainty bleeds away. She presses herself against him, accepting his kisses with less, and less restraint.

Cullen shivers, trying not to lose himself in the moment. He’s kissed her before, dozens and dozens of time. But he feels suddenly as if everything that lies between them -- everything that might be -- hangs in the balance of this night.

Of _this_ moment.

So he kisses her as he never has before. With his whole heart. Hesitant, and hopeful. And _hers._

His hands slide across her body, slick against the silk of her robe, feeling the shape of her -- thighs, hips, belly. His fingers tangle in the long tie at her waist. He utters a brief prayer against her lips, and feels her chuckle in response. He pulls the tie loose, and her robe parts suddenly. He can feel the heat rising from her bare skin. His cock, gone semi-soft thought the course of their conversation, _roars_ back to life. He can feel the head of it drag against her thigh, already pearled with a bead of precum.

She reaches, and wraps her hand around the length of him, pumping gently. Thumb teasing his foreskin down, tracing slow circles against his head. The soft sounds he makes turn breathless, then ragged at the edges, and he’s leaking against her palm.

He hooks his fingers beneath the open neckline of her robe, inching the fabric back over her shoulders. It is nothing like the slow tease from before, the way he unwraps her. One moment the silken material covers her, and the next -- it slips from her shoulders, and falls, puddling around her ankles.

“Maker’s Breath.”

She is lovely, and he _drinks_ in the sight of her, more glorious, and just _more_ than he’d anticipated. Warmth blooms beneath his breastbone knowing that no matter what shall come to pass, he’ll go to his death with the sight of her, naked and glowing in the firelight, stamped across his heart.

Words like _gift_ and _love_ flutter through his mind, but he doesn’t trust himself enough to speak. So instead he leans into her, hips thrusting a little into her hand, and claims her mouth again.

“You’re so beautiful.” He murmurs huskily, when he finally comes up for air. “So _beautiful.”_

He means it. Doesn’t say it because one ought to compliment one’s lover. Hers is the kind of beauty that’s woven into the bones. It’s everywhere. It runs through her. It’s in the sheen of her skin, the shape of her calves, the dimples above her buttocks. She smiles automatically, but he sees the words roll off her, like _all_ the things that are said to her, that she doesn’t choose to believe.

It is very much like when people praise her for being Andraste’s Herald.

And he understands. He’s been told he’s a good man before, but _Maker_ , she’s the only one who’d ever made him _feel like one._ The only person in the world who could make him feel worthy of _this._ And he cannot do the same for her. He swallows hard around the lump in his throat. Buries his face against the curve of her neck so she can’t see his stricken expression.

“One day.” He whispers. “One day I’ll say it, and you’ll believe me.”

“Cullen,” She says gently. “No one believes that of themselves. Especially not--”

He gets his hands under that arse and lifts her off her feet. Her legs wrap around him automatically, but her fingers dig into his shoulders, and she makes a _wuff_ of surprise. He chuckles. Thinks of taking her like this, against the wall, her weight in his arms as he drives into her, but she’s starting to make a real attempt to get him to set her down.

“You’re going to break your back, Cullen!” She protests. Trying to wiggle out of his grasp, without getting dropped. But the strain in her voice sounds like she’s suspiciously close to laughter, and when he deposits her on the bed, her face is flushed, and smiling. _“Show off.”_ She says, fondly, as he crawls onto the bed, and over her.

He chuckles, but the sound twists, tight with desire. In this position his cock nearly rests against the curve of her breast, and he has a brief, and startling vivid fantasy of easing the length of himself between them, and fucking the fullness of her breasts until he spills there.

_Maker._

The thought is so erotic that the tip of his cock _drips._ The silvery dribble of precum lands on the peak of her breast, and she makes a warm, rumbley sound in the back of her throat, as she presses her breasts together, back arching. He bends his head at once, chasing the proof of his eagerness, and laps at the tiny, silvery drop. Tasting himself.

His tongue curls around the peak of her breast, as she gasps, nipple tightening. He seals his lips around it, suckling firmly as she makes breathless sounds and writhes beneath him. She’s all soft, pliant flesh beneath his fingertips, and so, so responsive. More than any other lover he’s ever had.

When he pulls back, he’s left her with a dark red print upon her breast. And bends his head, giving its fellow similar attention, tracing her huge areola in a slow teasing circle, until she swears, and presses his mouth back down upon her breast.

He traces his fingers lightly over the hills and valleys of her figure, breathless with want, wondering who it was that taught her she wasn’t beautiful. She flushes, and shivers as he retraces his path, exploring her anew with lips and tongue. Leaving sucking kisses, and dark red marks wherever he goes.

His mouth drifts lower, and lower, nuzzling at the underside of her breasts, following the swell and dip of her belly. She’s silver-gilt here, stripped with the faint lines of stretch-marks, and he pauses dotting tiny kisses up each one he finds, before traveling lower still. Her legs jerk up reflexively when he laves at her navel, and he catches the underside of her knees, pressing them back against the bed, spreading her.

“Cullen…”

She makes a breathless sound, and tries to clamp her legs back together, but he holds her open. She’s tasted of his pleasure, time, and time again. It is only fair that he taste of hers.

He brings his mouth to the plush slick of her sex, and she bucks against him, so he gets only the barest brush of slippery contact. She is silver and sharp, and something lingers on his tongue that reminds him of magic. Not a flavor. A sensation. He licks his lips, hungry for more, growls a brief command to still her, and dips his head again. The silvery-salt musk of her dances on his tongue as he licks her cunt. She cries out, hips lifting from his grasp as he circles around her clit, flicking at the tender-firm nub of nerves with the point of his tongue.

“Be still.” He murmurs, sliding two long fingers inside her, careful of the angle and the way she clenches around him. But he pumps in long, smooth strokes, matches his tongue to the rhythm of his fingers, fucks her wide open as she shivers beneath him.

He tries to pay attention to her lifting cries, so that the next time, he may serve her better. But it’s hard not to lose himself in the bright taste of her. She clutches his head as her pleasure builds, fingers almost painfully tight in his curls, voice tight, and broken.

“Cullen, I -- _oh,_ Cullen!”

“Yes.” He growls against her skin, thrusting his fingers faster, scrapping the hood of her clit with gentle teeth. “Don’t hold back. Come for me. Come.”

She does. Rides his open mouth as she breaks. The sounds she makes as she comes -- the sharp, shuddering cries -- makes his heart pound, he’s hard enough that he can practically feel a second heartbeat at the base of his cock.

“Maker’s Breath.” He mutters. Presses a final, sucking kiss to her slippery sex, and surfaces. Chin glossy, mouth split by an enormous grin. “This might be the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

“This is rather high up on my list too.” She wheezes, still too breathless and spent for real laughter. Her breasts jiggle enticingly, and he palms one, groaning as it plumps in his grasp. He sits back, letting her legs fall closed for a moment before lifting one, bringing it over her body, until both knees are are on one side of her. He presses closer, one hand across the wide bulk of her thigh, the other, maneuvering his cock to tease at the plumpness of her sealed folds.

“Oh?” A dark brow arches over golden eyes, as he smirks. “And what’s the best thing?”

“I think it’s about to happen now.” She says, breathlessly.

_Maker._

The sound he makes as he presses his cock into her is inarticulate at best. She’s tight -- _Maker, she is tight!_ He can feel her stretch around him as he presses in, slow, and careful. She mights a sound that seems too edged with pain for his comfort, and pull out entirely, spreading her slick along the length of himself.

“You alright?” He asks.

She nods. Her eyes are wide, but dry and black, nearly all pupil. “Don’t stop.” She urges.

 _“Fuck.”_ He breathes, as he presses in again. It’s a smoother entry this time, but there’s still enough friction that it makes him shudder. He can feel his toes curl into the rug as his weight shifts. He braces himself against her thigh, pulling back, just as slowly as he entered, before flexing his hips, and thrusting in again. “You’re -- _fuck!”_

Just a few thrusts and he starts to feel his pleasure begin to build, and he has to pause, panting, stroking her thigh, and her arse, and --

“More, Cullen.” She asks, voice husky. “I won't break.”

“No it's not… I can't --” But his traitorous hips are already speeding up, and he hasn't the will, or willpower to stop them. And it isn't long before he’s thrusting in and out of her, at a brisk pace, one hand clamped on her buttock, the other on her breast. Her hips shift, and he has the presence of mind to look down at her, to see if it’s good for her.

_Maker, please let this be good for her._

Her expression is exquisite. Mouth, pink and parted on a moan. Eyes, unfocused, and wide, nearly all pupil. Her breast bounces to the rhythm of his hips, and he grips her tighter, thrusting into her with greater vigor, for the pleasure of watching her arch, and cry out beneath him. He wants to touch her very core. Wants to leave her gasping, beneath him. _Marked._ Filled with his seed. Sore from his pleasure.

He maneuvers her carefully so her legs are spread again, and drives into her as deeply as he can, feels her flutter around him in response, cunt clenching tightly. That nearly drags him over the edge, and he has to fix his teeth in his bottom lip and bite down to keep from coming.

“I can’t -- holy Andraste… _fuck!”_

It takes him a moment to realize the harsh undignified sounds are coming from himself. Strangled grunts and half formed pleas. And his hips buck wildly, losing their rhythm, and whatever meager grace he possessed. He can feel himself speed up even more, the _slap slap_ of flesh meeting flesh. He pounds into her, chasing his orgasm, even as he tries to will himself to _wait._

_Just a few more moments..._

His thumb circles her nipple, rubbing desperately, pinching…

_Please she has to --_

She comes a moment before he does. A heartbeat of absolute stillness, before she utters an earth-shaking cry, and arches tightly against him. And he has a brief, fierce flash of pride, before he _shatters_ against her, and is lost. The flood of sensation that rushes through him is nearly unbearable in its intensity. He can feel himself spurting into her, and thinks abstractly that maybe he should not.

But it’s too late for that. Far too late for any of the _shouldn’ts_ and _ought not tos_ that used to worry him so.

He collapses against her, panting, praying, trying not to crush her, but not wanting to break contact just yet. He half-rolls off, still lodged deep inside, and folds himself against her back, knees against the back of her thighs. The position puts his nose to the level of her shoulder blades, and he plants a kiss against her faintly sweaty skin.

“So?” He asks after a moment.

She chuckles. He can feel the vibration of it running through her, like a rumbling purr. “Are you asking me to rate your performance, Commander Rutherford?”

“The troops always benefit from my constructive criticism.” He admits, and she laughs for real, high and bright, and he nearly slips out of her. “Careful.” He murmurs, kissing her shoulders again.

She makes a thoughtful sound, “Then perhaps I should remind _you,_ how often you lecture your troops on the virtues of _frequent practice.”_

“Frequent?” He tries to keep his voice, light, and teasing, but even he can hear the way it wavers hopefully.

 _“Daily,_ I should think.” Her hand trails up the arm he has folded over her. There’s something hesitant in her touch. “What say you to that, Commander?”

He leans over to kiss her, heart beating heavy, and fast. “I think I’m falling in love with you.” He says, blinking. Startled by his own omission. His brow furrows, and he takes a deep breath, bracing himself.

Shit.

_Shit._

She is silent for longer that he would like. Long enough that his heart seizes up and his breath starts to hiss out of him. She will recoil. Or rebuke him, of course. Of course.

Foolish to think that she --

“I'm not falling.” She mumbles after a moment. Voice so tremulous it is barely recognizable. “I fell a long time ago. I love you, Cullen.”

_Maker._

He fears the fierce burst of joy might actually stop his heart. “You… what?”

“I love you.” She repeats, twisting to face him. Kissing his lips, and brow, and the rasp of his stubbled chin.

He utters a prayer of thanksgiving. And then another. And another. And another. Until she is laughing beneath him, the familiar sound of her joy as warm and solid as her touch. He strokes the curve of her hip, a lazy smirk pulling at his lips. “I would have seduced you long ago, if I’d known I was so good at it.”

“Oh?” She vibrates with amusement, stretches out to kiss him, and it is a long, long time -- full of kisses, and gentle touches, and whispered endearments, and _one more_ orgasm that he draws from her using only his fingers -- before they drop off to sleep, exhausted, and still wrapped in each other’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a difficult piece for me to write. I wanted an Inquisitor who was fully full-figured, and concerned about a lover might react to her weight, paired with a Cullen who absolutely loved the way she looked. This might have been easier to write from *her* perspective, but I'm really pleased with how it came out.


End file.
